The Untold Want
by Dagorlad
Summary: Aragorn and Eomer. A series of short vignettes from Helm's Deep to post-war Edoras. Two men, soldiers and kings-to-be, bound by duties, finding small solaces. Non-graphic slash.
1. If I Could Know Those men

The Untold Want

THE untold want, by life and land ne'er granted,

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

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And it seems to me if I could know those men,

I should become attached to them, as I do to men in my own lands;

O I know we should be brethren and lovers,

I know I should be happy with them.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

Dampness, incessant drip of water, chill caverns of Helm's Deep. Morning of victory bought with blood, courage stretched uttermost, weariness in warriors taking their rest, having hurts tended or last hours assuaged. What healers the Rohirrim had, and goodwives with small knowledge, moved through the ranks of men tending what they could, comforting what they could not.

Aragorn lent help though the weight of battle past yoked him with exhaustion. He was soon relegated to sitting and advising, and then knew he could do no more. Battle took too much. He bethought to walk the parapets but knew visions of death would nowise ease his mind. Even at the entrance to the caverns he could smell the faint stench of the fires burnt the carcasses of the enemy dead.

Caught between the already dead and the dying. Caught in the respite between Rohan and where his journey led.

"Lord Aragorn!" The words snapped his head around.

"Captain Erkenbrand, is it not?"

"Aye"

"Your coming could not have been more timely this day."

"You're looking for food then?"

"I meant your arrival to the field," Aragorn chuckled, a grim edge on his voice still.

"Aye, that. Only duty, Lord Aragorn. I came to say there be food prepared, and curtained pallets for our nobles, need you to eat or rest. Down the hall are the quarters." The captain motioned, before taking his leave and departing the fortress.

Silence descending as Aragorn walked away from the doors. A large room with curtained pallets to one side of the hall, few within, most still tending the field and noting the fallen. A sound from further down the hall, scrape of whetstone against steel, beckoned him. A room with warm lamp-glow spilling forth. Perhaps company in the calming meditative work of tending weapons; to put the mind at rest to sleep.

Eomer, sister-son of Theoden King, tending his sword, the lamplight burnishing his hair to old gold, his shoulders slumped as if with age as well. Too young for the burden now upon him, Aragorn thought, and moved into the room, laying a hand upon the younger man's shoulder.

A sword immediately at his neck, he stepped back. "Peace, Lord Eomer." Aragorn held up his hands. "This is not the unguarded plain."

"Make more noise the next time," Eomer said brusquely, lowering his weapon. He resumed his seat and his work.

"The fortress is well guarded."

Eomer only grunted in reply, bent over his sword blade, carefully sharpening. "There's ale if you want some." He gestured with his shoulder. "On the far table."

"And yourself?"

"Yes"

"Are you well?" Aragorn asked, setting down the tankards and placing a hand on Eomer's arm.

Eomer looked down at the hand on his arm, and when he looked up his eyes were glittering shards of pale ice. "I am well. Whetstone oil and rags are here if you've forgotten your own."

"And you refuse consolation when offered?"

"What I need I take. Had I need, I'd find it." Eomer returned to his blade, concentrating on the fine end. Slow precise strokes, commanding sharpness, honing perfect control.

Aragorn took his own whetstone from his small pack. And in the silence the men sat. Unison in the rasp of steel and stone. Tenuous consolation in shared silence.


	2. Ye Downcast Hours

I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,

I approach, hear, behold—the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes, your mute inquiry,

_Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me:_

Old age, alarm'd, uncertain—A young woman's voice, appealing to me for comfort;

A young man's voice, _Shall I not escape?_

Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours 

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

* * *

Wind, dry and chill, from mountain surrounds, mixing with the smell of forge and fire. Only an occasional faint balsam in the air told of other than a soldiers' void of steel and iron, leather and horse. The night sky hung starless, no dance above to counterpoint the grim below. And Aragorn walked the early morning hours before dawning. 

"You're leaving us to our end, eh?" A voice came from the shadows.

"It is not for me to say end or no, son of Eomund." Aragorn turned to face the voice.

"I think it may well be, Wingfoot, with your elves. Gainsay as you will, I know what I see."

"You think that this is a simple choice?"

"What others are there in war? You should not have come. Better none than false promises of aid."

"I have not fought beside you to lend falsity. If you fear failing," Aragorn halted suddenly, taken aback by the fire in Eomer's eyes.

"The Eorlingas do not and will not fail, Dunadan."

"I did not say."

"You did not say, you will not say. Instead you skulk about on cat feet and none know your mind in full." Eomer paced the confines of the small grove, hand grasping reflexively on sword hilt. "Go back to your rangers, and speak mysteries to them."

"I seek other company then that."

"To what end?"

"I have seen you fight, bravely and nobly. Your company is what I perhaps seek."

"Seek my company? There are others among the Eorlingas who would not mind the attention. Their battle prowess is but little less than my own. You've not been unnoticed."

"You misunderstand,"

"I understand well enough. But if it's cow-eyes you seek from the House of Eorl, seek my sister's company. I've my own concerns and no time for unnecessary words or misinformed intentions."

"And if I simply sought company as one warrior to another?"

"Never simple, Wingfoot." Eomer's rough voice rumbled softly. "I am no man's boy. I never have been. This talk of warriors is your politeness, and your fair speech would be welcomed elsewhere, I am sure."

"This is the way of the Rohirrim?"

"Is it not ever thus?"

"How so?"

"Need an unlettered savage write out the matter?" Eomer snapped, pacing as a caged bear. "Find you a young rider seeking your company for tales of battles in the aftermath, that he learns from you. You would have much to tell methinks. And choice aplenty, should your elvish senses appeal for a certain look."

"Aye." Aragorn looked thoughtfully toward the camp. "But I am not for speaking tonight and know not what the morrow would bring that I can tender offer of future tales."

"You wish one to bend to your will then?" Eomer sneered. "You'll find none here. No rider bends, else they'd not ride in my Eoreds."

"The companionship of peers? This occurs not to the Rohirrim?"

"We do as we need in the ways of our people. Go to your own kind if that is your way. It is not ours." Eomer turned away and departed, stride assured, shoulders straight, head high.

The night noise of armories, distant but distinct. A faint wind through the pines. Aragorn watched him depart. Nay, no time for the comfortable comradeship of equals in the late dark years of The Mark, when death was ever present looming. Only time for teaching as well they might, all that they could, in the stark practicality of men constantly on the move.

* * *

Comments/compliments to reviewers:

"Hello Anonymous": I cleaned up the spellings. Still getting used to constant electricity and technology after some time away. I think it is easier to tell tales than write them down. As for choppy? It probably seems that way a bit. But I am going for something a little more impressionistic (if you will excuse my conceit) and pure full-sentence narrative just could not express what I was going for. Hope this chapter was tidier and a little less chopped up.

Otto's Goat: Pardon the delay in continuing. R/l matters take me away sometimes and other times it is just piles of work. Hope new (and settled) schedule will permit more frequent writing. Always and unfortunately subject to change with wind direction.

Angoliel: I am quite flattered. I am trying to write slash for the non-slashy and slashified alike in this little first endeavor. (Worshipping at the altar of Mary Renault as I go). I'm trying to draw in some of the classical theories of male warrior relationships into my mission…thing…quest!


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